Where I'm from, in the style of George Ella Lyons. |
Where I’m From (In the style of George Ella Lyons) I am from glass bottles, from Swatch Watches and an age without seatbelts. I am from a bungalow with ruffled curtains blowing in the kitchen window. (A gaudy yellow, they ballooned in the breeze, like the bottom of a swirling skirt.) I am from maple trees and the purple blooming lilacs of May, whose gorgeous balm filled my bedroom with a sleepy brew that hushed me as the sun would sink into the earth. I am from the peony bush outside my parent’s bedroom window which bloomed soft, serrated globes of hot pink, like paper flowers on a bridal car, and I‘d sit on the railroad tie, seeking comfort in the petals. I am from take-out food in grease-soaked boxes on weekends and strands of copper hair, from a father who always has a story to relate and a mother who thinks that volume is how you make your point. I am from grandma Grace who was afraid of rainbows and who ate milk and cookies in the early morning darkness. I am from Ernie, who I never knew, but I see his eyes in my reflection, occasionally. I am from Jack who told grand tales and cared for roses, and from Kathleen who barely spoke at all but was still heard loud and clear. I am also from Michael, a stranger by blood, who loved me as his grandchild, just the same. I am from summers on the Trent and bags of rubbery curd cheese. I’m from those who know better and those who don’t do, from eat up, drink up, shut up! and if you can‘t do it right, don‘t do it at all! I’m from confession in a dark booth, the smell of finished candles and ten Hail Marys, which I’d recite without thinking. I’m from the city, the country and suburbia with roots threaded through the peat of Eire, from Sunday roast with gravy and strong tea. I am from secrets, politics behind brightly coloured doors, spilled blood in bog water and potters praised for their china. I am from forty greens and royal blue, from high hopes and muddy lows. I am from a love of mirrors, romantic missteps and the strength to change a path. I am from an old, rusting trunk with a lock which keeps the love and broken bones of a long dead war within. There are voices, poetry and the pleading of lovers on timeworn paper creased by longing and the fear of death. I am from superstition and worry, The Old Stone Cross and pan-fried fish on cold Fridays. I am from my own treasure chest, with a broken seal from a desperate boy who tried to learn who I was without asking. I am from the old dolls with peeling faces, handwritten, unfinished stories and the beaten baton from a majorette’s day of glory. I am from dead, dry flowers of moments I was meant to remember, yet have forgotten still. I am from an entanglement of faintheartedness and impassioned curiosity about where it is that we are going, and why. |